


Icarus was a narcissist (and his boyfriend was an asshole)

by The_Readers_Muse



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama & Romance, Feelings, Feelings Realization, Loyalty, M/M, Pre-Slash, Temporary Character Death, They touch alot in the movie okay?, big gremlin ship energy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26527726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Readers_Muse/pseuds/The_Readers_Muse
Summary: The most immediate problem about waking up to the sting of cool metal and goose-pebbled skin was that he distinctly remembered dying.
Relationships: Keane/Steven Merrick
Comments: 7
Kudos: 27





	Icarus was a narcissist (and his boyfriend was an asshole)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own "The Old Guard" or any of the show's characters, wishful thinking aside.
> 
> Authors Note #1: Because I always need a gremlin ship in every fandom, I guess. I was baited with a post by maghrib-genova about shipping Merrick x Keane and here we are. Immoral husbands. – This is meant to fit into the movie after the main ending. In an AU where Merrick and Keane get the 'immortality disease' and basically internally yell a lot about it. Or at least Keane does because his pov is what you are getting. 
> 
> Warnings: canon typical violence, blood and injury, temporary character death, pre-slash, drama, angst, hints of romance, they are not good people, loyalty and other odds and ends.

_"You shot Nicky."_

_"You shouldn't have done that."_

* * *

The most immediate problem with waking up to the sting of cool metal and goose-pebbled skin was that he distinctly remembered dying. He remembered being beaten, on the ropes. The whole fucking nine yards. He remembered tasting gravity as the dark haired one lifted him up, then-

Everything else hit him after a corpse-gasp pause.

No.

Impossible.

But it was.

 _He_ was.

He recognized the tang of autopsy and blood the same moment his body remembered how to breathe. Choking on the dryness in his mouth. Caught in the folds of an unzipped body bag. He thrashed, weak. Stomach roiling. Not realizing he was falling until his shoulder shattered when he hit the floor. Never more grateful to be alone as a pained cry echoed in the empty room. Rebounding in waves that hurt the cartilage in his ears as his neck popped and creaked like the bones of a small animal being crushed under a heel.

Blood, snot and salt rivered between the seam of his lips as he breathed through it. Wheezing through his nose. Feeling the unfamiliar pull of bones knitting back together. Better by the second as his body re-skinned his insides, abandoning his mind to the wolves.

That was when he knew.

That was when he understood.

His muscles seized when he tried to get up. Caught in a strange sort of rigor that was wearing off quickly. Like his muscles were remembering how to be alive. He blinked. Then blinked again. Vision blurred as the metallic sheen of an autopsy table glinted to his right. It was clean. Empty. Giving him the impression that the medical gurney he'd fallen from was just a staging ground for when the Coroner arrived.

_Shit._

He figured he'd probably have a nightmare about that later.

If he got a later.

First, he had to get out of here.

He rolled to his side with a groan. Every inch of him screaming foul. Staring at the chipped black wheel of the gurney as he wondered if what those people had was catching.

* * *

_How long had he been out?_

_Where was he?_

_With who?_

_What happened?_

_Where were the targets?_

He made it to a wide stainless steel medical sink before his legs could give out. Drinking straight from the tap until his throat came unstuck. He didn't bother looking at his reflection. He just stuck his head under the tap until the water stopped tinting red. Scrubbing his hands as rivers streamed down his ruined clothes. His empty holsters and knife sheaths. All the way down to his boots.

While the dying and coming back to life was new, this wasn't his first time in the shit.

_"First team, hold the hall... First team?"_

He lurched to the side and opened the nearest closet. Something settling in his chest when a spare set of medical scrubs brushed his arm. He pulled the shirt on with a jerky movement. Grateful it fit. It was tight around the arms, but serviceable. The pants were a lost cause. He could tell from the label they were two sizes to small. Hopefully no one would be around to look at his bottom half.

_"This is it, dig in."_

He searched through the supply closet methodically, grabbing a pack of scalpels. Tearing the packaging open and hiding them in the usual places. Blinking through uncoordinated flashbacks.

_"What the hell are they waiting for?"_

He remembered the surging rise of fear that took over tense adrenaline. In those last few seconds, he'd been afraid. He could own that, looking back. It hit different now than it had then. He'd gotten caught up in it when dark-haired bastard just kept coming. Saying something about the other one as the headbutt snapped him back. Ringing dying frequencies in his ears. Sending him reeling at the wrong moment. Giving the immortal the opening he needed to take him down.

It had been a long time since he'd felt fear like that.

He didn't like it.

His fingers curled around the handle of a scalpel as his mind supplied the lingering echoes of gunfire. The blunt edge tried to cut into his skin as he fisted it tightly. The feeling was grounding. Keeping him in the moment as he closed his eyes and breathed deep.

That was all he allowed himself.

* * *

3:14 am.

When he opened his eyes, a red-tinted wall clock showed the time. Explaining more than a few things. Mostly why no one seemed to be around. It was the graveyard shift. Whoever had been prepping him had probably gone to take a shit or have a smoke break. The dead don't complain about having to wait. And lucky for him people were fucking lazy.

3:16 am.

His back hit the main door. Listening. When he didn't hear anything - no one coming down the hall, no footsteps - he clicked the lock into place.

He'd made a life - a career - out of self control. Out of compartmentalizing what didn't matter and trusting his instincts instead of his emotions. It was why he'd worked for Merrick for as long as he had. He always chose the winner.

 _'Until now,'_ a little voice whispered. _'You knew the moment you should have cut and run, but you didn't. You stayed. You died for him.'_

He wrenched his head to the side, forcing the voice quiet. Breathing hard as he fumbled with the paperwork on the desk. Finding his information half filled out before snatching it up. He found the small bag of belongings with his name printed on the side easily. Ignoring the taped evidence seal as he ripped it open. He slipped on his dog tags - pocketing his wallet, watch, Merrick I.D cards and keys.

3:25 am.

He paused.  
 _  
Merrick._

_Where was Merrick?_

His phone lit up when he grabbed it. But for the first time, the missed calls and texts weren't from Merrick. It seemed like it had always been that way. He'd gotten so used to it, the absence was jarring.

Merrick probably thought he was dead.

_"Keane? Keane, how many more do we have coming?"_

Something twisted in his gut.

It was more than displaced responsibility.

No, it was worse than that.

He wheeled around, internalizing for the first time that he hadn't been alone. He'd been one of a dozen body bags. Maybe more. Each one labelled in white block letters under the city coroner.

_Jesus Christ._

The names of his men were familiar as he weaved through the rows of bags. But he didn't unzip them to check. He trusted the tired handwriting and the illegible signature scribbled at the bottom where someone had matched I.D's to faces. Just like someone had done for him.

Later he'd wonder why he hadn't thought they'd come back. Why he hadn't assumed they'd be like him. Why all he could think and taste was Merrick. Why there was a flicker-flash between blinks that sounded like a female curse. Merrick's shocked exhale. Then just whistling wind. Still, all that didn't explain why he felt the overwhelming need to find-

Merrick wasn't here.

The computer at the desk caught his attention. Victory tightening his throat when he realized it was still signed into the program the morgue used to keep track of everything.

He typed into the search and stopped cold.

Name: Steven Merrick  
Time of death: 4:34pm.  
Cause of death: to be determined. Suspected homicide.  
Autopsy scheduled for 7:30am at Merrick Medical Labs, Site 4, Room 6b.  
Attending Coroner: Doctor Meta Kozak

_Fuck._

Danger was an acrid taste in his mouth when he swallowed. Remembering the way she looked at the targets after they'd watched the intel video for the first time. He'd seen that look hundreds of times over the years. And it was never good. Not in the long term. Not like this. She might be an employee of the company, but when ambition was on the line, that meant absolutely jack. Especially with Merrick out of the picture. If she found out about him, or anyone else, they'd be on those medical beds just like the original targets had been.

Lab rats.

A means to an end for her fucking Nobel Prize.

The reciprocal irony was cut-throat.

He needed to disappear.

_Now._

The problem was, when he quietly left the building and stole a shitty car parked on a side street five blocks away, he started driving to Site 4.

* * *

Merrick was dead.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting when he pulled the body bag out from the stainless steel freezer. He didn't know what he was supposed to do or feel when he stared at the Merrick logo screened in bold print cross the front. Hands curled into fists at his sides as the recycled air filled the silence.

What had he thought would happen?

 _Christ.  
_  
He strangled an ugly laugh as he looked away - up at the ceiling. Blinking quickly.

_Why was he even here?_

His hands didn't shake when he unzipped the bag. But he didn't make it much past familiar features. That pale, sharp face made more angular and sallow in the low lights. His fingers flinched away from the thick ruby slice that ran the length of his neck and shoulder. Able to tell that almost every bone in him was broken.

What had they fucking done to him?

What _hadn't_ they fucking done to him?

He stepped back, wiping his hand over his mouth. Anger was a familiar emotion. But this wasn't it. It was some sort of bastardized version of rage, disappointment and- and something else. Something that tasted like poisoned salt.

He spat to the side. Forgetting where he was. Forgetting about everything. All of it. He just needed to get the taste out of his mouth.

Merrick's eyes were bruised closed.

He couldn't stop staring.

Merrick was always moving.

Busy.

He'd always had a manic sort of energy.

Now he was still.

Quiet.

He stalled, swallowing hard. Looking around the room. Anywhere but the table, Merrick and all the ways everything about it was wrong. He wasn't sure why he was still here. Why _this_ had been the driving force inside his head ever since he'd woken up. It wasn't loyalty. Not entirely. It didn't explain why-

The first snap didn't register.

But the second one did.

The shift of bones setting under someone's skin sounded just as bad as feeling it.

Hearing them cracking back into shape. Dozens of them. _Healing_.

He whipped around.

Merrick's face twitched.

He didn't breathe.

Merrick's fingers spasmed against the inside of the bag.

 _Jesus, fuck._  
  
He grabbed the table, jarring the metal. Pulling a dehydrated groan from the man in the body bag that only made him soar higher. Knowing he wasn't imagining it as his ears echoed with the sound of bones resetting. Watching the wound on Merrick's shoulder close – then heal - like it had never happened all.

There was a first name on the tip of his tongue.

Balanced like an unfamiliar pit-fall.

But like a mercy kill, Merrick's eyes fluttered, then-

He could've had all the years in the world, but he still wouldn't be able to remember how he'd gotten from there, to just grabbing him. Yanking Merrick up until he was half sitting and braced again his chest. Shuddering into him as sharp fingers dug into his arms. Muttering nonsense into bloody curls as Merrick seized and whimpered.

This wasn't them.

It had never been.

 _But right now it was_.

It was affirming and alive with the sting of hands that grabbed way too tight.

"Keane…Keane…I-I wasn't… They-"

He closed his eyes, chin rasping dried blood and broken glass as he dipped close.

He wasn't alone.

And maybe that was why they'd lost in the first place.

Bonds like that were unshakable things.

There was power in it.

And Merrick had been no match for it.

Neither had he.

But here they were anyway.

_Together._

And wasn't that just a son of a bitch?


End file.
